Chapter 4: Things Left Unsaid

Arjunan didn’t mean to see him again.

He hadn’t meant to return to the garden.

Hadn’t meant to walk the **eastern hallway** where the morning light painted shadows on stone.

Hadn’t meant to glance up from the lotus pond... and find **Veeran** watching him.

Again.

He stood at the far end, dressed in black and gold training robes, his hands behind his back, hair slightly damp from sword practice.

Their eyes met.

Neither spoke.

A bird cried somewhere above, loud against the silence that stretched and refused to break.

---

Thamizhi’s voice startled Arjunan.

“You keep walking in circles,” she said from behind him.

He turned quickly, startled.

“I didn’t see you.”

“I didn’t expect to be seen.”

She stepped beside him, her eyes lingering—first on the pond, then on the hallway where Veeran had disappeared without a word.

“Is he following you?” she asked gently.

“No,” Arjunan said too quickly.

She smiled faintly. “Then you’re following him.”

“I’m not,” he whispered.

“I didn’t say it was wrong.”

He looked at her.

She didn’t push further.

Just placed a hand on his shoulder—and let it stay.

---

As the day wore on, the palace moved around him like a tide Arjunan couldn’t swim through.

Courtiers whispered. Thamizhi watched.

And Arjunan... wandered. From the library to the shrine. From silence to silence.

He avoided the garden. He avoided the east wing.

But he could not avoid the way his fingers still remembered the feeling of Veeran’s bracelet.

That night—after the evening prayers, after the sky turned black and soft thunder rolled beyond the hills—it began to rain.

And once again, Arjunan walked alone.

Barefoot, silent, robe clinging to his ankles as he paced the covered walkway that edged the courtyard.

His thoughts were too loud.

His heart louder still.

And then—he turned a corner—

And nearly collided with a figure in the dark.

Veeran.

---

Their hands touched—only for a second.

But the second lasted too long.

Arjunan’s fingers curled back, but Veeran’s stayed open.

He didn’t say a word.

Neither did Arjunan.

But their breath hitched at the same time.

They stood, rain dripping from the edges of the palace roof, thunder low in the distance.

“I’m sorry,” Arjunan whispered.

“For what?” Veeran’s voice was steady, too calm.

“For… I don’t know.”

Veeran looked down at their hands—now separated.

“I’m not,” he said.

---

The silence wasn’t empty.

It had weight. Soundless things passed between them—questions neither could say aloud.

*Why do you always find me?*

*Why don’t I want to run when you do?*

*Why does your silence speak louder than any poem I’ve ever read?*

Veeran moved slightly, brushing his shoulder gently against Arjunan’s arm as he passed him to go toward the garden.

That single contact—a simple, fleeting **shoulder against shoulder**—sent a wave of warmth up Arjunan’s spine.

He didn’t follow.

But he didn’t walk away either.

---

Later, in their shared room, Thamizhi sat on her mat, brushing her long hair.

Arjunan sat by the window, still soaked in thoughts.

“You’re too quiet these days,” she said softly.

“I’ve always been quiet.”

“Not like this.”

He turned. She was watching him through the mirror.

“Is it him?” she asked.

Arjunan didn’t answer.

Thamizhi sighed, then stood and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.

“I won’t warn you,” she said finally. “Because your heart is already too far gone for warnings.”

She paused at the doorway.

“But just remember… he’s a prince. And you are someone the gods pretend to protect, until they don’t.”

Then she left.

---

The next day, Arjunan was summoned to the temple pavilion in the southern wing.

He was walking through the rose corridor when he heard a voice.

“Wait.”

He stopped.

Veeran stepped from behind a column, dressed simply, without guards or sword.

They were alone again.

“How do you always find me?” Arjunan whispered.

Veeran looked down at his own hands.

“I don’t try to. You just… appear.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Maybe I’m tired of answers.”

A long silence followed.

Then, slowly, Veeran raised his hand—not to touch, not to demand.

But to offer.

Palm open.

Arjunan looked at it.

Then turned, quietly, and walked away.

That night, Arjunan wrote a single line in his journal, ink smudging from the tremble in his hand.

> *If he touches me again, I don’t think I’ll be able to walk away.*

He shut the book.

And tried to sleep.

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